


Petty Theft

by blushamatic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Mild D/s, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushamatic/pseuds/blushamatic
Summary: Sloane nabs an unusual piece of loot. Hurley is very, very interested.





	Petty Theft

**Author's Note:**

> If elevators and mechs exist in this world then dammit so do arcana-powered vibrators.

Sloane knows the contents of an expensive purse before she’s nabbed it. She can tell who’s carrying gold, who’s got a valuable piece of arcana, who’s packing a dagger. (Daggers, she avoids—the notch in her right ear is all the reminder she needs.)

The owner of this particular purse had just been shopping. It hadn’t been Sloane’s primary target, of course—she’d come to the market to shoplift a few things for next week’s race. But when the purse landed on the ground directly in front of Sloane’s feet, knocked from the arm of a noblewoman by a rambunctious gaggle of urchins, well, it was practically divine providence she should have it.

(Goldcliff’s nobility were all insufferable pricks, anyway, and Sloane was doing the city a favor. “That’s not how justice works,” Hurley always said. Hurley had to say it a lot.)

On a tenement rooftop just off the main square, Sloane inspects her haul: a jumble of cosmetic potions, an emerald ring she can’t wait to pawn, and enough gold to get her landlord off her back this month. There’s also a strange, oblong, lavender box. Huh. Sloane unties its satin ribbon and cracks it open. She sneers. Really?

A _gilded scepter_? Gods, the rich were atrocious. She turns it over in her hands, revolted by its opulence—confused, though, by its odd minimalism. The sphere at the top is completely smooth, as is the handle, save for a groove at its base. Sloane’s thumb skates over the little indentation.

The object buzzes to life. Sloane drops it instantly and lets out a yelp.

And then she stares, and she belly-laughs. Oh my god. Oh, this is perfect. This is, by far, the best loot she’s nabbed all year.

* * *

“Out with it.” Hurley tweaks Sloane’s toe and plops down. “What were you so desperate to show me?”

The night is too hot for anything but bare legs, which suits them just fine—not that Sloane ever wears much around Hurley’s apartment anyway. Sloane is sprawled against the headboard like the bed is her own, in her underwear and her thinnest shirt, swirling the amber liquor in her glass as smugly as possible. She rakes eyes across Hurley’s hip, her freckled forearms. Building suspense. Plotting.

Finally, from under the pillow, Sloane produces the lavender box and tosses it onto the bed between them.

“Got you a present.”

Hurley arches an eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”

Sloane shrugs, sips. “I had a good day at work.” She bites back her glee while Hurley tugs at the satin ribbon and removes the lid.

“What is this supposed to be?”

Sloane rolls her eyes, grabs it, and beckons Hurley to her with a finger. She rests the rounded end against Hurley’s cheek, just a feather-light touch, and presses the button. Hurley squeaks—it’s _adorable_ ; Hurley never _squeaks_ —and tumbles back. Sloane bursts into laughter. “Oh gods, your face! That was priceless!”

Hurley sputters, cheeks pink. “Where did you—? Actually, never mind, I don’t want to know where you stole that from.”

“You don’t know that I stole it! Maybe I bought it for you. Maybe I spent my hard-earned gold to buy you a nice, sexy gift.”

“Sloane.”

“Fine, yes, I didn’t buy it. But if you won’t accept stolen goods . . . ” Sloane scoops up the vibrating wand, silences it, and moves to toss it to the floor.

“No!” Hurley yelps, so eagerly that Sloane smirks.

“No?”

“No, I—” Sloane hears Hurley gulp audibly. “I’m interested.”

Sloane grins from ear to ear and slowly, imperiously, offers the wand to Hurley.

Hurley takes it in both hands. “You got plans for this thing?” she asks, brow knitted.

“I was hoping you’d have a few.”

Hurley turns the wand over in her hands a few times, considering it.

“Yeah, I can think of something,” she says after a moment. “Something you’ll like.”

Sloane reddens.

Hurley looks up and oh, she’s got the _look_. That mile-long stare that makes Sloane’s breath hitch in her throat and the soft points of her ears bloom red-hot. “Put that drink down.”

Sloane sets her glass aside, eyelids drooping, instantly obedient.

“Take your panties off.”

Sloane’s heart is pounding now as she hooks her thumbs into her underwear and slides them down her thighs, then over her knees and ankles. Hurley plucks them off the bed and drops them over the side.

“Spread those legs.”

Sloane obeys, head buzzing warmly. Hurley creeps forward to kneel between Sloane’s thighs. Her hand slides across Sloane’s shoulder and up, up, to cradle the back of her head. Sloane’s lips part. Hurley leans in, takes them in her own, drags a tongue across her bottom lip, exhales deeply. Then a kiss to Sloane’s jaw, then to her neck, and Sloane’s head falls back, a pitiful little sigh escaping her.

“You’re being so good,” Hurley murmurs into her neck. “Not so bratty tonight, are we?”

“Mhmm,” Sloane hums meekly. Sloane feels Hurley grin against her collarbones, a nip at the skin there. She feels Hurley’s hands creep up her belly, feels her knuckles slide across Sloane’s nipples, catching on her shirt, and oh, that won’t do. Sloane’s fingers grasp the hem of her shirt and lift it up and over her breasts. Hurley smiles, takes a nipple between her thumb and forefinger and Sloane is moaning now, needy, hips rolling forward in search of friction, finding none.

Hurley’s grin is lazy, eyes hooded. “Need something?”

It’s bait—a goad to get Sloane to beg, and Sloane knows it. Her instinct for defiance flares up in an instant— _no begging tonight, nuh-uh, no way_ —and she makes a grab for the wand. She’ll get this party started herself.

Hurley, of course, is faster. “Nuh-uh, sweetheart. This was a gift for me, remember?”

Sloane glowers. “Mean.”

“Yeah?” The wand whirs to life. “You sure about that?”

Sloane can't reply because in the next instant, she’s throwing her head back and curling her fingers into the sheets as the wand’s head glides across the hood of her clit. She feels the vibration trace a circle around her entrance and she’s panting, unraveling.

“Mean? Really? See, I don’t know about that,” Hurley purrs as she strokes Sloane. “I’d say I’m pretty good to you.”

Sloane’s lip trembles and she nods. “So good . . .”

Hurley slips the head of the wand just inside Sloane’s entrance, just barely, before dragging it up and over her clit. Sound pours out of Sloane.

“How’s that, baby? Too much?”

“N-no, it’s perfect.”

The bed shifts, and Sloane feels the vibration hesitate at the base of her vulva. She cracks an eye open to see Hurley slipping out of her shirt and underwear and settling back in between Sloane’s thighs, knees spread, her cunt wet and dark and inches from Sloane’s own. Hurley, tender—always so goddam tender—wraps one hand around Sloane’s waist and the other around the wand. She rocks her own hips forward as she pulls Sloane to her, and the wand grinds into both of them at once.

This time, it’s Hurley who shudders and groans. She curls forward, limbs melting; their foreheads meet. Sloane finds Hurley’s mouth. She whimpers, needy.

Something in the kiss brings Hurley back to herself, and with a sharp inhale, she pulls away. She tightens her grip on the wand, lifts her chin so she’s looking down at Sloane through her lashes, and thrusts her hips once, twice, three times. And oh, gods, oh _fuck_ , Sloane can feel every thrust and she knows Hurley can too. Hurley is fucking her and Sloane is wailing, not giving a shit about the open window or how the bed creaks with each thrust or anything except _harder, faster_.

“Harder,” she hears herself whine. “Faster.” Hurley obeys, pounding her into the headboard.

Sloane dares to look down. The head of the wand is slick with their cum. Hurley’s biceps are tense with effort, deliciously defined. Sloane feels a tidal wave of heat gathering inside her. “Baby, I’m—” she groans. Gods, is her voice wrecked. Hurley’s arm tightens around Sloane’s waist and when Sloane lifts her eyes, Hurley’s face is right there, jaw trembling with desire, hot breath on Sloane’s neck.

Hurley bucks into her, merciless. “Y-yes . . . gods, fuck me, I . . . fuck, _FUCK_.” The wave crashes, and Sloane dissolves, held in Hurley’s arms, boneless, throbbing. Hurley’s breath catches at the sounds pouring out of her. Sloane, through a blissful fog, watches Hurley shudder through her own release, and gods, she’s beautiful, flushed and breathless, her world narrowed to this bed and these bodies.

When Sloane’s mind clears, Hurley’s head is nestled into Sloane’s shoulder, their chests rising and falling softly, sweat-slick. Sloane gingerly reaches down to silence the wand, which slips from Hurley’s fingers without protest.

Sloane skates her fingernails across the back of Hurley’s head. Her hair could use a fresh buzz. Maybe in the morning, after some breakfast, she’ll sit her lover down and get out the razor and clean her up. Massage that neck of hers, always so full of knots. Kiss those shoulders. Kiss those ears. Drag her back to bed, start all over again.

Sloane sighs a long, slow, utterly contented sigh. “That good, huh?” Hurley murmurs.

“Mhmm.”

After a long moment, Hurley slides out from between Sloane’s thighs, then takes each of her legs—so gently, one hand cradling her calf, one hand holding her ankle—and stretches them out across the bed. Sloane can feel the ache forming in her hips. She’ll feel it tomorrow. She’ll feel it with every step and think of this moment, of Hurley lamp-lit and sleepy-eyed, rolling to curl into Sloane’s side and running a warm palm across Sloane’s abdomen.

She’ll remember, and she’ll ache for more—for this again, for this always.


End file.
